


Pink Shadows

by politicalmedievalistnerd



Category: Worldshaker
Genre: Animal Abuse, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insanity, Internalized Misogyny, Liberator - Freeform, Period-Typical Sexism, Steampunk, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 08:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14588640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmedievalistnerd/pseuds/politicalmedievalistnerd
Summary: Sephaltina’s three months in the bridal suite.





	Pink Shadows

There’s only shadows now. Shades of burgundy, dark against the carpets, as these Filthies all in black and white walk the halls. Their clothes are straight cut and hang off them, barely covering the necessities, so improper. It sickens her. The juggernaut was built and raised up by her family, her parents and grandparents and great-grandparents and all her ancestors, back to the Turbots in the motherland. Their colours were blue – she prefers pink, personally, but blue is nice and strong and looked fine on her brothers and her father. Their name came from a talking fish, a fairy story she had always loved to hear from her grandmother, and their crest had three fine trouts upon it. These Filthies have no crests, no stories, no ancient names. She doesn’t even know if they have surnames at all. What would they put on their crests anyway? Mud and dirt and guns? They brandish guns at every opportunity, and she watches through the keyhole, shivering, shaking.

Her wedding dress is still pink, covered in pearls, but stained with blood from a cut on her palm. The frills have caught and ripped and she sews them back together with her own hair, for she didn’t think to put thread in her bridal suite. So silly. What if clothes had needed mending? She hides for most of that day, afraid of her grandfather’s growl, or the back of his hand, for doing something wrong. She hasn’t seen her family since the wedding day. Not her old family nor the new. She’s a Porpentine, now, she remembers, and she’ll have to re-embroider her handkerchief. No, she couldn’t go around with the wrong name. She wonders if her husband remembers her name. It’s been a long time. She’ll need some patterns, so she might learn to embroider the crest. Her new crest. Usually the Menials would do that work for her, but she had to practise when she was small. Her fingers are out of practise and she pricks their tips until the blood comes down like the rain she’s seen out on the water. She is glad it doesn’t rain on the Worldshaker; how many of her hairstyles would be ruined?

She needs to look presentable for her husband, for whenever he arrives. He’ll be looking for her, of course, it’s only proper. He’ll be dealing with those filthy Filthies. She curls into the pink duvet, or wears it like a cape, and peeks out at these foreigners. Their names aren’t pretty ones like Quinnea or Sephaltina or Ebnolia, they’re hard and when she repeats them to herself, they sting her tongue. A few wear corsets on the outside, with puffy blouses and underthings. She hits her head against the pillow. How silly are they? Her mouth screams for sweets and she raids the food she had stored for her wedding supper with Colbert; Colbert, the future Supreme Commander, with his dark hair and big eyes. She loves him, of course, just as a wife should. She wishes he would find her quicker. When she hears people marching past, she knows it is the team of soldiers looking for her, the still-maiden wife. Part of her wants to tell them that she is here, but no, no that would be improper, and she will get hit if she is improper. It cannot be risked. She sits and waits, arranging her face into a perfect look of distress.

The wallpaper is still pink, and she squashes the white worms against them, frowning prettily as they smear against the walls. She hunts them down, smashing their frail bodies, watching them explode and fall to the floor. She has never seen anything die before – she did not go to see her grandmother when she departed, for she has always easily gotten sick. She prays for them all, of course, and wonders when she will get to go to the Imperial Chapel again. It is so very beautiful. Colbert will find her soon, and then they will go, she tells herself, even when the worms’ bodies cover all of the bright pink flooring. The food has turned from pretty pink, floury and sprinkled with sugar, to low and grey and hard. It no longer flounces in her mouth. When she retches, she cries. She has never tasted food like that before, never wants to, and her body turns greener and greener. She stands in front of the mirror, pinching her cheeks, making them pink. It’s always been part of her charm. She cannot afford to lose it. Disappointing Colbert isn’t an option.

Finally, she leaves.

Men like to chase, and hunt, so she’s heard, and in all her games, she would always end up giggling and asking for a clue. She has to give Colbert a clue, she decides, and she finds a panel of wood and throws her weight against it. There is some sort of Filthy contraption on the ground and she uses it, hacking away. The sounds will bring him to her, he’ll find her now. He’s smart, very smart, he always got the top grades at school, she remembers it. She would get her favourite Menial to bake him cakes or buy sweeties and she would go herself, so brave, so risky, sneaking them in his desk. He seems to like brave girls, he was ensnared by that – Filthy at the wedding. She remembers the Filthy girl’s face and smashes the panels harder, until she hears footsteps and flees like a frightened lamb. Lambs are small and cute and delicate and she must be too, or else she will not make a good marriage.

She takes off her tiara after that, scared of it falling off her head. It’s so beautiful, and she watches it day and night, in the glitter of the lights. Her ring matches, with pearls and a finely cut diamond. A Princess style, they called it, and she loves it so very much. Her husband will be coming soon, and he will have a matching, yet simpler one, with a gold band. He has dark hair, she’s sure of it, and danced poorly.

She goes out again, giving him more clues. He was from a good family, she knows that much. Not like these strangers. There aren’t any sweets, and she can’t find a Menial to ask. She’ll tell her mother about this. The Honourable Hommelia Turbot will not put up with this. She stays out all night, banging and smashing. He was a smart man. Younger than her, she remembers, and stores that piece of information away. But only by a year. That was why he couldn’t dance well. He would learn.

Sometimes, when she stares at the reflections in the pearl tiara, or squashes worms, she wonders how long it has been. Perhaps a week? It’s hard to tell. She cannot remember. Her poor husband cannot find her. She misses him. It is improper that he hasn’t found her yet. She can say that now, as his wife, but he may have a mind to reproach her. She must remember that too. The bridal suite is very nice and pink and she hopes he will like it, when he arrives. She is losing some of her plumpness. She must be very careful, she can’t risk losing it. She’ll look most ill. Not nice at all.

Each night she goes out and searches, and she spends her days trying not to remember what she has seen. She loses her handkerchief and weeps terribly, for she cannot go without it, it would be like going around without a brain! Her mouth has stopped its begging, though, she has found sweets somewhere, although she cannot remember where. Maybe it is for the best. Husband will be here soon. He must be. His wife is awaiting him. Perhaps he will tell her her name, she would like to know, so she might embroider it again. Something to do with trout.. She likes fishes. They always look so very pretty in the paintings.

And she waits, and waits, and waits. One day the door opens, and the light is so bright, she has not been out at this time in a long while. A boy and a girl – a woman, really – and a baby. The rings match. Sephaltina, they call her Sephaltina Turbot but she clings to Porpentine. It sounds better. “Husband,” she whispers, “husband.” Nobody calls her wife.

 


End file.
